


The Square Root of Sixty-Nine is Eight Something

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(But why is the rum gone?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Square Root of Sixty-Nine is Eight Something

**Author's Note:**

> Michael is shooting [Prometheus](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1446714/) right now. Everything else is make-believe.

Two months into the shoot and Michael is subtly different. Stiller, less prone to sudden explosions of laughter. Less prone to expressing with his face. Subtly not quite human. It happens. James is on the set ostensibly because - well he has no real reason to be here, except that he wants to be, and that’s usually reason enough. "You look good," he tells Michael.

Michael turns to glance at him, but doesn't smile when he's passing James the bottle of rum he'd produced from somewhere inside the trailer. James holds the bottle with one hand while trying to remove his jacket with the other; ends up passing it back to Michael while he works his arms free. Michael unscrews the cap and takes a long, hard swig.

"Long day?"

"Could have been worse. Getting better by the minute.

James reclaims the bottle and searches for a clean place to throw his jacket. Everywhere looks dubious. "I love what you did to the place. Looks cozy."

"You could clean if you're into that sort of thing, you know. I could probably find you a little outfit."

James snorts. "Your sex life must be fascinating."

"You have no idea," Michael replies. He takes the jacket from James and tosses it carelessly into a corner. "How's things with you?"

"Great. Babies, diapers. Middle of the night feedings."

Michael's moved too close, fingers fussing with the lapels of James' shirt. "You could probably use another drink then," he says, almost sympathetically.

James manages, barely, to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Settles for the grin instead, that slow curl of pleasure he feels whenever Michael's around. Or that might just be the alcohol speaking. He gulps down another mouthful, the rum hot and sweet down his throat.

"I always like it when you're so accommodating."

Things get hazy after that, conversation blurring into laughter blurring into _you have lovely fucking lips, James_ , and _are you coming on to me, Michael_ , and unexpectedly, _depends on whether you'd suck me off or not,_ and James has to think on that one, honestly. Not because he wouldn't, in theory, because he would. But in the practical sense. "I'm sloshed. Technique goes," he makes a whooshing sound and points vaguely with his fingers, "right out the window."

Michael looks thoughtful for a second, and James thinks: well, fuck. But then he shrugs and smiles widely. "Not really the technique that's the appeal here, I promise."

James hands him back the bottle he's been hoarding. "I don't know. I have a reputation to keep."

"Are we negotiating?"

"Maybe." He narrows his eyes as Michael takes a swig, decides that the man is way too sober to have drunk so much. Or at least, he's almost certain Michael has drunk as much as he has. Everything got a little uncertain once he hit the sofa.

"Well?"

"Still considering. Maybe you could serenade the entire cast for me. Or," he adds hastily, as Michael looks about ready to serenade him, "You could promise never to. Never to -" He forgets his train of thought as Michael buries long fingers in his hair and pulls his head back so he can lean into his face.

"Liar. You love it when I serenade you."

James always did have a weakness for blondes.

Michael releases him abruptly, only to slide his thumb across James' lower lip. He's still in make-up, which James doesn't necessarily mind, this side of the uncanny valley, but it's Michael, and it's. Interesting. He opens his mouth, lets him slide that thumb in, run across the front of his bottom teeth.

"Ow," Michael says mildly, and snatches his hand away.

"It was just a little nip," James says. "Didn't even break the skin, I'll bet."

"See now I'm reconsidering." Michael scratches aimlessly at the side of his face. "Maybe I should go get this make-up off first."

"Oh why on Earth would you want to do that," James says, raising himself up onto his elbows despite his body's natural inclination to stay right there. "Think I came all the way up here for bad booze and a worse dyejob? I could suck you off anywhere else."

"See I'm hurt now. You've ruined the mood. I don't want you sucking my cock anymore." Michael makes a great show of looking troubled, except it doesn't quite work with his face looking this subtly alien. "Okay," he continues after a beat, "I'm over it. Move." James shifts until Michael's got his knees on either side of his body, loosely straddling him.

James settles his hands on both thighs, slides them up and down but makes no effort to do anything else. Except his body, perhaps, is starting to wake up and register things like interest, and anticipation. Michael takes another swig of his rum and then lowers the bottle to James. James' opens his mouth obediently for a trickle of alcohol to wet his mouth.

"I told Zoe," Michael says conversationally. "I said, I bet you'd be a dirty fuck. For all that you're you."

James laughs. "I'm not entirely sure what that means."

Michael's smile fades away, and just like that he looks entirely sober. "I think it means I'm going to shove my cock down your throat, James."

"That the kind of charm that gets interviewers to like you, Michael?"

"Read my interviews, do you."

"I like to keep on top of things," James says, and that's when Michael seems to remember that he's still straddling James, thighs tightening against his sides as he pushes up on his knees.

"That zipper's not going to unzip itself," he says lightly, sets the bottle down beside the sofa.

James mutters, "Did I lose a bet or something," but he obliges because he's just in an obliging mood today. And then Michael's cock is - in his mouth, past his teeth, and Michael is hissing, low and steady, and - he can't quite breathe properly, but that's fine, he'll work through it. Michael doesn't seem to notice or care, until he does, and the bastard actually stops to furrow his brow which makes it worse. James makes carry on motions with his hands and Michael shifts slightly, makes a sound that could be taken as a question or a warning and slides in again, and this way it's better, easier.

He likes the way Michael croons under his breath when he starts fucking James' mouth for real, hands braced against the armrest for balance, his scent a not-unappealing mixture of make-up, sweat and vaguely vanilla-scented prop gunk. "Fuck," he grits out, and James can feel his muscles strain under his palm, tense from keeping his weight off James. His eyes are closed, but when James hums against him his lids flutter open, and he looks dazed, and it takes a moment for him to meet James' gaze. "Fuck," he says again, almost startled, and then he's curling in on himself, pulling out halfway to wrap his fingers around his cock, and James feels giddy, lightheaded and strange, this close to laughter.

He doesn't swallow, instead he holds it until Michael leans down, sweaty and sated, to kiss him, and then he slides his tongue into Michael's mouth. Michael starts but dutifully helps him by sucking his tongue in deep and swallowing.

"Jesus," Michael says, when he finally breaks away. He kisses James again, on the temple this time. James is still hard, but it's a distant sort of ache. It'll wait. He wraps his arms loosely around Michael's waist instead, settles in for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> For the **oral fixation** square.


End file.
